


Where I End and You Begin

by winter_fennec (unreliablefairyservant)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreliablefairyservant/pseuds/winter_fennec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's a taste of the Fade on his tongue, sparkling like electricity and fresh spring water, and in some way like the colour of the sky. It never really goes away these days, though it's stronger in the mornings. As if they are closer to the Fade just after waking up. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He, they, it's getting harder to tell the difference. And that's just the point, isn't it?</i>
</p>
<p>Joining with a spirit is strange, and there's not really anyone you can talk to about it. Anders is having a hard time telling his thoughts from Justice's. Then he meets Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I End and You Begin

There's a taste of the Fade on his tongue, sparkling like electricity and fresh spring water, and in some way like the colour of the sky. It never really goes away these days, though it's stronger in the mornings. As if they are closer to the Fade just after waking up.

He, they, it's getting harder to tell the difference. And that's just the point, isn't it?

Some mornings he will wake up feeling just as exhausted as the night before, though he remembers dreams of writhing black masses, or sometimes of cold stone walls and aching silence. He couldn't say which is worse. They both leave him with a sharp pain in his chest, through his entire being, that refuses to go away until he's found a way to occupy his thoughts completely. The clinic is good for that; there will always be another refugee who needs healing, another cough, another broken bone, and so he gives it his all.

But there are other mornings where there will be no residual dreams to assure him he's actually slept at all, and he's not sure what it means. Could Justice take control while he sleeps?

He starts making sure and triple-sure that the door is locked at night, leaving some sand on the door handle so he can see if it's been disturbed, but it never has. And he wants to ask but it's so hard to tell his thoughts from the spirit's these days. It's not like they can hold a conversation. Not like before.

And it's not like there's anyone else he could talk to about things like these _._

But then _she_ comes along, armed and cocky, blatantly carrying the staff that could have her taken to the Circle at any moment. She keeps the strangest company and her laugh is like a storm in the Fade and makes his head spin. And he can't stop thinking about her. So different from the other mages he's known. She moves with confidence, head held high, and he wonders just what her apostate father taught her to make her seem that fearless. Hiding in plain sight. It's perfect.

She _shouldn't_ have to hide though and if he could only _focus_ , work a little harder, help a few more people, then maybe he would get closer to actually _accomplishing something_. Every new face bearing a fresh brand he spots in the Gallows threatens to split his soul in two, and the anger within him is growing into something almost corporeal. His fingers are shaking and he's writing, writing. _Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters, thus she feared the influence of magic_. It's not enough, he needs to _act_.

For every mage he saves, another is made Tranquil. For every mage that leaves the city, another turns to blood magic. And then there is Karl, but even thinking about Karl hurts too much. Everything hurts, but then there is Hawke. The one friendly face in the city of chains. She comes to him more and more often. Some days she brings food, others she will come with supplies for the clinic. “Your shelves looked a bit empty.” Some evenings she will try to bring him along to see her friends. “Anders, I swear you'll fuse with that chair if you sit there for much longer.” And sometimes he even goes along with it, though he feels a gnawing unease whenever he has more than a pint or two to drink. Where did that come from? His answer bubbles to the surface: “Justice doesn't let me get drunk any more.”

Justice, Justice, Justice. As if there could ever be justice in a city as corrupt as Kirkwall. It's futile, really. Anger swells within him, as much directed at himself as it is at the city, the Chantry, the Circle. His anger merges with that of the spirit, grows into something more, hotter, stronger. The only thing that brings him down to the earth again is the thought of _her_. Hawke. Marian. He dares put a name to his feelings now, when it seems she won't disappear from his life without warning. As consuming, as frightening as it is, he is starting to love her.

The thought of her keeps him awake at night, and there's always the feeling that there is something _better_ he could be doing with his time if he's not going to sleep, a sense of dissatisfaction that isn't his own whenever he disregards those feelings and lets his thoughts dwell on her. Some nights he will give up and settle down by his desk to burn another candle to the end. Other nights he stays on his narrow bed, breathing growing ragged as he thrusts into his hand and he lets himself _wish_ , even if wishes and dreams are dangerous. Perhaps now at least he will be able to sleep.

He must be so obvious and the hardest part is that he can't read her, can't tell if she's toying with his blatant affection or (he's afraid to hope) if she actually shares his feelings. Flirting used to be something easy and fun, a game, but now a cold fire burns within him and he's afraid it will consume him. But she persists. When she visits the clinic it's to help him out, or to ask for his assistance, but she lingers, her words provocative, her hand staying on his a fraction too long.

“How long will it take before I drive you mad?” she asks and something within him breaks. He's kissing her before he can stop himself, before he can think, and her lips are so soft, pliant beneath his. Her hands come up to cradle his face when he breaks away. _If your door is open tonight_.

“Justice doesn't approve of my obsession with you”. He's not sure if that's the truth really, just that he's got this murmuring feeling of _unrightness_ in the pit of his stomach and though he feels it, clear as anything, it doesn't feel like _him_. Maybe that's what it's always like. Possession. It's not like there's anyone he could ask really. Merrill may have made a deal with a demon and he may find it horribly naive, but the fact of the matter is that out of the two of them, he is the one who's possessed. The thought would have brought a wry smile to his lips in another life, perhaps, but now it just gives rise to a growing discomfort. _Not a demon_.

But Hawke accepts him, accepts _them_ for what they are and perhaps that is the thing that lets them fall into bed together. That night, for the first time in years, there isn't a trace of unease in his body.


End file.
